Fledgling
by lacedoll
Summary: Sometimes there is solace in silence. This isn't it. [elricest, Al's pov]


**warnings: elricest**

**A/N:** Hey, everyone! This is kind of an ad-on to a fic I'd written previously, The Gazebo, but it isn't necessary that you read it first. After receiving a really nice review I was inspired to do this, so thank you so much. While feedback, whether positive or negative, is always appreciated, I am grateful to anyone who reads this. Hope you like it!

* * *

I am no expert on the body and its secrets, but I think my brother's says the things he'd like to keep away. Important things. They slip out when he doesn't know, like a draft under the door, and before I know it I'm freezing, and so are you. Hey, Ed, I know it's not okay, but it reminds me that there is more to coming home than I knew. That and, I'm not as good as people seem to think. I am skin and muscle, flesh and bone; I am no exception. I used to think that was beautiful.

Then I see it in the distance: the place we called home long before ours was ashes. Do you remember all the nails hammered into fingers, my concern, Winry's laughter and the bandages last summer? Now there is a small room for me, and an empty one that will someday accommodate others. You say it isn't big enough; Winry says it's perfect. Well, I don't know what either of you have in mind, but I'm sure you'll make do. My brother always makes do.

The closer I get, the more nervous my heart becomes, running like maybe I should, too. But I don't, you see, just grip my suitcase tighter, let out a sigh I've kept a while. How my body clenches, contracts, closes in on itself, how my vision blurs under the sun's steady gaze and, how I should know better, how I should be. I guess I should have been a lot of things, Brother, but I don't know what they are. In the end there is me, and there is you, and this is what we have left. And I am not regretful. I have small things. I should have gotten up earlier, I should have added more salt, I should have asked more questions. But that is all they are. I am not regretful, I keep telling myself. Keep telling myself.

What does it mean, "selfless"? One who thinks of others first, perhaps, one more concerned with family, friends, strangers than himself. But who is that? I think, and want to laugh, because maybe we are pieces of it, maybe sometimes, but humans are as selfless as much as they are dogs. I wish they'd stop saying that, selfless. Because I'm not, and because I'm tired.

The closer I get, the more I want to turn around.

But I don't.

"Alphonse!" I hear Granny's voice and a scuttle to the foyer as I finally set my belongings on the floor and wipe my brow. I smile as she cuts into view returning the best of herself, a smirk and a sigh reserved for family. "Take off that trench coat—it must be 80 degrees out there," she grumbles, shaking her head and tugging at my sleeve. "I don't see why you boys insist on being so mysterious all the time."

"Granny," I laugh, shrugging out of it, "it was freezing this morning at the train station."

"Yes, well, it would have done you some good to take it off once the sun showed itself," she replies, crossing her arms. I can't help but feel so full, so full.

Coming home to an empty room, I've realized, will always be strange. The bed is made, the walls are bare. It is a far cry of what used to be, our books on books, scattered papers, pens, Winry's worry and Granny's scowl, because young boys are not as clever as they think. Why clean up when we are not finished? is what we both were thinking. But it is done, the blinds are drawn, the sun spills through, and that is how I know I am here.

As I remove clothes from my suitcase the door creaks. I turn around and there you are with a kind of simper that could make me never finish unpacking, your hair a mess of gold, wisps of thread loose from your ponytail, eyes big and knowing. Too much, probably. You say hey like we've just fought and you're giving up, and it's a little unsettling, I have to admit. I want to look away. But there are so many things I cannot do.

You sit on the bed, crossing your arms and leaning against the wall as I fold a dress shirt.

"So when did you get here?" I ask.

"Couple nights back, actually."

"Really? Your letter said you planned on being here a month ago."

"Yeah, well, you know how it goes. One thing leads to another."

I frown, knowing all too well of the grief we must be causing.

"Granny's making stew tonight," you clear your throat. We've learned not to discuss adventure until supper time.

"Great," I smile, sliding a pile of clothes into the dresser. "It's been so long since I've had it. It's not really on the menu in Xing."

"She refuses to make it otherwise, y'know. Says it's something we all have to eat together."

"It's like that, though. I'd feel weird if we didn't."

You snicker, pushing hair from your face, letting a hand drag against your cheek. We stare at each other for long a while like our eyes are speaking for us. My skin prickles.

"Where's Winry?" I finally say when I am certain my chest will burst and that you will speak.

"Picking stuff up for dinner. I told her I'd go but she wouldn't let me."

"She knew I'd arrive while you were gone."

It's been six months but feels like double. Your hair is longer, thicker, somehow. The ring matches your eyes. I notice a pair of glasses in your pocket but don't ask about them.

"Yeah."

* * *

"I know I've already told you all in my letters, but-you should have seen it, Brother, I wish I could have taken pictures-you wouldn't believe all the ancient alkahestry inscribed on those walls. It's a wonder that it wasn't discovered until now."

"Sounds like it," you say through a loud slurp. "How much of it have you translated so far?"

"We've barely begun," I say, and my eyes must be full of light because you can't take your own off of them, "but each day we learn. It's exciting to be back there again. May's a fantastic teacher as always."

Once upon a time I wouldn't tell my stories, partly because I couldn't and partly because I didn't need to. People used to ask me where you were, Brother, when we moved in two directions, and it makes sense, but it angered me. Did it anger you, too? Because it made me wonder who I am, and who you are, and I still don't know which is worse. I don't cry at night, I write letters during the day, and I don't pine, I miss, I _miss. _Yeah, we're both blonde, but you have Dad's eyes and I have Mom's and people don't know these things, but they see them. Please tell me they do.

Yet I won't lie, won't say that I don't dream about it, your arm and my body and what we did between then and now. Brother, have you ever wanted something so terrible?

As you retell your own stories, Winry looks at you how she always has, eyes wide and bright one moment and rolling the next. Like she can't fix you but you don't need fixing. I think it is something you taught each other. You both laugh and my stomach twists.

* * *

Summer's soaked our shirts, and the coolest place we know is the river. You lay on your back, eyes closed and arms outstretched while I swish a twig through the water, watching bugs scurry at my feet. Winry wants to play, but we spent the night with failed equations and arguments and now we want to sit. We're sleepy, you explain. I'd never seen her so disappointed.

"Brother," I say, cutting the thick, moist air, "I've been thinking about something."

"What?" you sigh.

"Families should stick together, but all the family around us disappears. What does it mean?"

"I dunno, Al." You roll on your side until I can't see you. "And they don't disappear out of thin air. They're taken. Stolen."

"Everyone's taken eventually."

"I guess."

"What about us?"

"What are you talking about?"

"It kind of scares me. If everyone's taken, who's to say it won't be us next time?"

"Don't you start talking like that. We're not gonna die, Al."

"How do you know?" I fall back next to you. "How do we know any of that?"

"We don't. But you can't go around thinking that way, what if I lose this, that. It's no good for anything. It makes you stuck. And if you're stuck you don't move."

"I don't know what we'd do."

"Listen to me. It's not 'what we'd do.' It's about what we're doing now."

I wanted to believe you, but I couldn't. Because two springs before, a baby bird fell from its nest. I never saw it fly.

* * *

When night falls we gather firewood in the backyard. It is almost dark, the sun goodbying as it disappears behind a hill. You glow in the day's last rays, silhouette strong and soft and something I want to touch.

"Brother," I say as you hand me an armful of planks, "do you know what I've realized?"

"What's that?"

"How much I dream now."

"What do you dream about?"

"A lot of times it's just landscapes. Mountains, beaches, countrysides. But they're beautiful. Sometimes I think my brain is making up for the years I couldn't."

You laugh. "I'm glad. It's funny. Well, not funny, but back then I would've given anything to stop dreaming."

I frown, staring at the grass. "Sorry."

You shrug, nudge my shoulder. "There's nothing to be sorry about anymore, Al."

Oh, Brother. Even if I could repent, I don't know if I would.

* * *

I have this dream, one where I'm in armor and you are two metal limbs, and we fight for who we've lost. And you get in trouble, and I am there to pull you back, and we learn that we are small. I used to think your eyes were magic, the way they'd glint in the sun for me, a smile that lips can't make. That even with heavy, aching bodies, even when crawling on our knees, your warmth would overwhelm my vision and swallow me in light. The kind of light that never sinks. I have this dream.

But I've made so many wrongs, Brother. Some haven't even happened.


End file.
